The moon

We came out of our houses to watch the moon. The moon, which had blessed the earth for five billion years. For millions of years, human beings had watched the moon. It had been there before them, and they knew that. At times they had looked at it in wonder, at other times they had recited poems about it. Some had found it to be unreachably distant. Some had been completely disinterested in it. The moon looked on.

In the last few hundred years of this long story, human beings had come to believe that the moon is not alive, that it is a mere rock, an accidental formation, the result of an explosion that happened equally accidentally, long ago. That a lifeless power of gravity keeps it close to the earth, and that meaningless reasons give it the colour it has.

As we stood there watching the moon, we felt that in reality, nothing was not alive. Nothing was not alive. Nothing was accident.

The moon was the sphere that spoke of tranquility. It had witnessed the time when human beings were part of nature, when they loved nature as much as a man loves a woman and a woman loves a man. When they held fire in sacred reverence, when they looked at the sky in awe and respect, when they felt invigorated by the life-giving majesty of the sun.

And the moon had seen all that turn into mere ritual. It had seen the magic disappear from man’s heart, and mechanical worship replace the spark of universal belongingness that lit his soul in earlier times. The moon had also seen all this then whither away, not even remain mechanical ritual. It had seen how man and woman went about their lives, so entangled in their tasks, as if the universe was not their lover, as if they were not like children in the womb of the mother, placed their to be nourished and grow into who they are meant to be. They were completely disconnected from the larger reality around them.

That night we felt that the distant star, distant even from the moon, the star that was faintly glowing in the corner of the sky, had a relationship to us. It was made of the same stuff that we were made of. Life. Life flowed in it as it did in us. In us it became feelings, and it became a body and its sensations. In it, life became light, darkness, fire, air. It became heat and movement of an intensity barely imaginable to us.

But were not our own feelings also light, and dark? To truly relate to another human being, seeing his hopes, his struggles, his fears – did this not bring the light of love. Did this not reveal the darkness that we continually battle away. The light of genuineness and real relationship was in us, as was the darkness of suffering.

Was there not the fire of passion in us, for art, for a cause, for justice, for truly knowing who we are and what we are here for?

Did we not know the shattering intensity of life, when it struck us in ways we did not want, when it seemed to crash into our lives and bring down to dust and ashes what we thought had been ‘our’ life?

The star would take us a million years to reach, if we travelled at the speed of light. But the star, a million light years away, was in our hearts, and we were in it. The whole universe was only an embodiment of the qualities of the heart.

The moon, the closest embodiment of the vast universe, was a reminder of that vastness, of its existence in us. It was a reminder of the meaning of our lives. It was a revelation of life itself, still, intense, fully present. Blessed by it, we returned to our daily lives, our loves, our work, our sorrows.

 

 

 

 

 

 

~ by tdcatss on April 7, 2018.

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